


Amandi Prime

by Forgotten_Logic



Series: Primal Matters [2]
Category: Transformers
Genre: Galas, Invitations, Medical Procedures, Multi, My AU, Ratchet as Prime AU, Ratchet wants to look at the booty but doesn't want to be rude, Science and Medical Galas, Some characters may actually appear since being mentioned, Some characters will reappear later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-01-06 07:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12206769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgotten_Logic/pseuds/Forgotten_Logic
Summary: In a world before war, Ratchet does as he would every orn. However when the wheels of revolution start turning, he finds himself in the most interesting of places.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here I go again. 
> 
> Luna-cycles are like months btw.
> 
> Like Luna-cycle 7-12 is the seventh "month" and twelve is the "day" or "orn" if you're so inclined to use transformer lingo. Lol

The sound of metal being pulled, whining as some strained, wires being stripped and spliced back into proper place, full frame remodels with hissing, biting, revolting against the strain of change; all along with the unsettling drip and trickle of Energon solution, falling into a comatose frame. Hands folding in far and deep within a chassis, removing or replacing something that should have been dealt with vorns ago, for what is certain, this was where Ratchet was most comfortable since leaving University. 

Technically it was an institute; the Iaconian Institute for Medical and Technical Science was one of the more prestigious institutions that a mech may be pleasured to be able to attend. Very expensive, however, quite well thought out in their methods. 

Ratchet, with his hands chassis deep into a green mech—one he never encountered previously, had to have part of his his T-Cog replaced. (However, the mech had paid for a full replacement.) Rarely was there ever a problem for a majority of those who actually _did_ have a T-Cog; most were left under used (which caused neither benefit nor harm) and most mecha stayed in their route mode unless absolutely necessary to activate the organ. 

The green mech was unconscious of what was happening, and most likely, he’d be glad for that. Replacing T-Cogs could be a messy feat. A lot of internal Energon goes through that one organ, so, that leaves the chance that—if the medic is incompetent—the mech could bleed out. Ratchet over his career had been spared the loss of any of his patients, however others were not so lucky. 

With the organ now removed, he placed it off to the side, resting amongst other tools and wire bits that had to be removed prior. It leaked on the tray pink inner Energon. Ratchet grabbed from another tray, a freshly pressed sphere with white spindles poking up in four directions. Four excruciatingly important connectors that if done wrong lead back to the original fear: bleed out. 

But with practiced ease, the organ was connected, soldered, and already hummed with inner Energon running through it. One job done, now a report to fill out. It was all something that Ratchet could do blind, however, that did not change that fact that it was irritatingly, absolutely tedious. Nevertheless, it was his job and he was to do it correctly and to his standard. Ratchet left the patient alone atop the berth, arms and legs still strapped down for precaution. 

It really should not be called paperwork, it’s more like padwork. The materials to make paper recently had become very expensive, and caused one of two things to occur: 1) everyone chose to go digital because it was cheaper and 2) (unfortunately) allowed for old knowledge to be left behind. Ratchet did not really stand for paper or for the pad, it was still just work to him, which that led to indifference. However, he had always strived to learn of his own history; Orion did like to throw different pads that had been newly transcribed from himself and Alpha Trion. Orion was always like that, always historically inclined. 

Over on the counter, the pad that he plucked up was still on from when he had first made comment regarding his patient. Before he could go through with completing the document, there was a knock on the surgery room door. He did not reply, if it were an emergency the door would have been rushed, but then again he would have received a Comm. as well. He made a tentative short handed note on the pad then tapped a glyph based code to unlock the latched door. 

Someone who did not appear they would have credentials to even gain the entry codes to get through the other hallways to reach the surgery wing, edged their way in, absurd colors, bright green and blue frame and white optics. Ratchet was close to asking what warranted this visit from this oddly colored mecha; until they spoke, holding a signature pad from the Skytowers of Vos, so he recognized. “I’ve been sent to deliver this to you.” The mech offered it but Ratchet did not take it. Dragging along with the other pad that was for work, he ushered the other mecha out and into the hall, door latching closed. Only then did he take it, watching the screen as it showed the Winglord’s insignia: four wings, a pair facing up and down with a strike going up through the middle. “From Winglord Starscream,” he stated blandly. Almost hesitant optics of the green and blue mecha found his, with a nod. “Yes, Chief. He asked that I give it directly to you.”

“Did he now?” The mecha nodded. “You have done that. You may leave, unless you’re lost,” the Chief Medic groused. The green mecha shook their head, their unease still visible. “No, Chief, I can find my way.”

“Please do.” Ratchet waited for the mecha to leave; he had already opened the pad to investigate what its contents were. _An invitation?_ What would the Vosian Winglord want with him? He was the Chief Medic in Iacon, perhaps there had been a situation of sorts within the city state. 

Ratchet only looked back up when he heard the door at the end of the hallway close, only for one opposite of that open up, revealing the surgeon he come to cover for. He looked back down at the pad. “You’re coming in late, Pharma. You know that will not be tolerated,” chided with a mild glare, Pharma only hummed. 

“I won’t be again, I assure you.”

“Your promises have failed to hold bromine before. Take consolation in the fact that you have not been fired to work on the streets as a miracle.”

“But you don’t believe in miracles,” Pharma said dully.

“Damn right.”

“I assume you’ve already taken care of the T-Cog replacement.”

“Of course, you were not here to do it. All I have left is the report,” he added, lifting the two pads, bringing attention to what his subordinate would not get to do. “You’re getting quarter pay for the job.”

“But this is my job,” flight engines hissed. 

“It _was_ your job. I had to take over with you being late. There is no excuse for you,” Ratchet growled quietly, the edge in his voice prominent. Pharma did not draw back, but his flight engines whined in subtle resignation. “I understand.” Pharma opened the surgery room and walked in straight and tall, wings high and tight with irritation. 

Ratchet sighed and took his own leave, away from where Pharma had come in from. He had to fill out that report and check over that invitation. It would be rude to not consider the opportunity. However the question still lingered as to why Starscream, a Winglord, would want a grounder up in a Skytower. 

It would not be like those in Vos, or the Winglord, to bring a grounder up there. It takes energy, transport. What would Starscream gain from his visit if he even decided to go at all? Perhaps that invitation that he had received would tell the tale. However, until the time that he could read it with full comprehension, he needed to fill out that report. _It can be turned in tomorrow_ , He mused. He had already done a mixture of patients that orn, and he was well and good with going to his apartment for the night-cycle.

Orion would most likely be there when he would arrive. His friend did not work late; it was rare that he would ever be even the slightest bit late to arrive. 

With a less irritated sigh, he weaved his way through the halls, passed the receptionist, and out into the slowing streets of Iacon. It's medical district was partially closed off from those without clearance, meaning if someone was not a doctor or without an appointment would only dream of coming within five klicks of the facilities. Which did tend to make those having an emergency all the more tragic. 

That was one thing he had not approved of with his career. It allowed for far more than merely keeping those who may afford the care alive, it grew resentment of those in the entire field. No matter how pure intentions could be, it never helped to define the job with so many already against its traditions. 

Traditions were never made to hurt other but to protect them. _Why is it when others deem themselves so much more worthy of being salvaged and leave the rest to fend off Cybernoids in the scrapheap?_ It was not what Ratchet wanted to be known for, being another mech in line with other mecha that would only serve if they deemed it necessary. 

No, it would not do. As he walked down the streets, more and more mecha came into view while the medical district disappeared behind him. 

He powered on his Comm., sending a discrete message to Orion. /send ENCRp to {Orion Pax}(Hello. Just out. Busy orn.) It was simple but to the point and all that was really required. 

The two of Cybertron’s moons had hidden partially behind the horizon, to another mind it would signal an omen; to Ratchet it meant nothing. He had never been one for superstition, it never served well. If something so sinister as insecurity crawled about, he would rely upon science, medicine, to guide him. It did not matter for what or for whom, the sciences would be the answer he would call to. 

/receive ENCRp from {Orion Pax} (Hello. They're all busy for you.) Ratchet hummed at the communication, twisting and falling into his vehicle mode with ease. His apartment was less than 15 klicks from outside the med district. His engines hummed, he however hissed when something hard hit his undercarriage, hard and sharp feeling, but no systematic pings. 

/send ENCRp to {Orion Pax} (Need anything while I'm still in Iacon?) Their apartment was not far from Iacon, per se, however if he could avoid driving back, it would be appreciated.

/receive ENCRp from {Orion Pax} (No thanks. :) ) From there he had only 4 more klicks until he reached the apartment complexes, stacked neatly in a honeycomb formation, on atop another. 

His tires squealed as they came to a stop, mere mechlengths away from the door. His first step was heavy, slightly ungraceful, however, steady. His arms swung slightly back and forth, passed his hips when he walked. Dull gray walls with dim yellow light illuminated in a circular form the fixture, the door nearly black with iron. His pedes echoed against the walls, and seemed all too loud for the usually bustling complex. However, at the hour, normal mecha would be heading into recharge, perhaps even a round of boisterous gambling. 

He fumbled the code into the keypad, most things that were locked with keys were replaced by codes and keypad; it was thought to be “safer”, however, it never stopped anyone who should have not been there getting. Robberies had increased as of late, the precise reason why Orion now lived with Ratchet. Ratchet had given the reason that his apartment had much less crime than what adorned Orion’s previous one. It was more for the mental stability of Ratchet that he asked Orion to live with him; he'd never wish to admit that he worried about him to the point of being almost delusional. 

With a gentle swoosh, Ratchet stepped into the room, only separated by an island in the middle. Orion was snuggled up on the couch in front said island, knees to chassis while reading a pad; per his usual state of being once in their apartment, lounging about and reading. He had nothing against it, actually, Ratchet rather enjoyed being able to sit in a comfortable silence or be able to bicker over characters in a novel. 

Orion looked up briefly from his reading, eyeing over the hefty build, how the red contrasted the white. “Hello,” it was plain, but that was how Orion addressed him, setting his pedes against the ground instead of the couch. 

“Hello, Orion,” Ratchet replied, sitting down heavily on the opposite end of Orion. The smaller Iaconian watched as the medic brought out the two datapads. “Brought work home? Someone must've been late.”

“Yes, Pharma was. He’s been testing my patience recently,” he groused, powering on the report first, idly tapping away the required information. 

“He has; you've come here more times than I can count with more work for yourself because of him,” Orion pointed out. “I'm surprised he has not been fired.”

“Pharma is a brilliant surgeon—when he shows up, and it would be a waste of a perfectly good certification. But if he is not careful, I will send him off to Delphi.” He had the first of seven pages done of the report. _Tsk, pages._

“If I showed up late I wouldn't have much chance of _not_ being fired. As least he has job security.”

“Security that is fading. I've had it up to here—” dramatically rising a hand as high as it could above his head “—with him,” he growled. Then he sighed. “Enough about he who won't be named, how was your orn?”

“Slow, good but slow. I had to edit the newest batch of transcribed pads, which did not take too long. Alpha Trion is usually quite precise,” Orion answered, face staring at the green screen, maybe only needing to tap the screen once or twice for a correction. “I didn't have much to bring back so I just warmed up some Energon. Yours is in the heater still.”

“Thank you.” From there, the silence carried. His report done with, the invitation then carried his attention. The insignia pulsed on the screen when he powered it on, bold yet inviting. With a single tap, a Vosian carol sung out, much of the words Ratchet could not catch, but it did startle Orion. 

It was video based invitation, saying: “Hello Ratchet of the Iaconian medical district. Winglord Starscream seeks your attendance our orns from Luna-cycle 5-7. You may bring one guest with you as you attend the gala for mechanical science and technology. We do hope that you will attend. You need only to show the message inscribed on the front page.” The Vosian choir came on again, but faded to quiet hum before disappearing into the thinning silence. 

Orion’s optics were opened wide in awe. “You were invited to a Vosian gala?”

“I would seem so.”

“You have to go!”

“What?” Ratchet asked, the now excited mecha beside him on his hands and knees on the couch, staring him down with awe huge in his optics. 

“You have to go! It’s the Vosian science gala, one of the most prestigious parties of the medical caste!” Orion paused his glee. 

“You want to go, don't you?” As if Ratchet needed to ask, the dentea smile and the nod were enough to prove the fact. “Of course if you already have someone in mind, I don't want to encroach where I'm not welcome.”

“Orion, I had yet to even consider going. And even if I do go, you would be the first I would ask.”

Orion nodded, smile still of his derma. When he hummed, his smile fell. “It said Luna-cycle 5-7.”

Ratchet paused his rereading of the invite. “Yes. What of it?”

“That's tomorrow,” Orion said plainly. 

“Well slag then,” he griped, leaning back against the cushioned backing. “I'll put in a notice of absence for tomorrow.” 

“You've decided to go?”

“You better grab what you need for the trip. A good cloak would be a nice idea,” said Ratchet while Orion phased through a multitude of different emotions in a quick span of mere nanoseconds. Only tomorrow would they come to realize what they were in for.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEy, thanks for the patience. I can guarantee that I am slow lol. I'm going to try and work on the next chapter tho while im still on break :3 let's see how that works out.  
> hepta-cycle: a Cybertronian week (in no ways is canon)  
> 38 joors in an orn. 7 orns in a hepta-cycle. 3 hepta-cycles in deca-cycle. 4 deca-cycles in a luna-cycle. 8 luna-cycles in Cybertronian year (a vorn).  
> 1 joor is 2.3 hours (138 minutes)  
> 1 orn is 87.4 hours (5,244 minutes)  
> 1 hepta-cycle is 611.8 hours (36.608 minutes)  
> 1 deca-cycle is 1835.4 hours (110,124 minutes)  
> 1 luna-cycle is 7341.6 hours (440, 496 minutes)  
> 1 vorn is 58732.8 hours (3,523,968 minutes)
> 
> there are only 525,948.766 minutes in a year on Earth. an Terran year is 6.7 times less than a cybertronian one. lol I think too much about this. none of this is in the wiki. I made it up. use it if you like. [Here's the link to the Google Sheets thing with this stuff.](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/12xIl_oQzqPL6u2gfMnWvJ9qRroVJy4r4TvmdW1NW9q4/edit?usp=sharing) It's not so pretty but it works alright lol

The wee joors of dawn was when Ratchet awoke. Quiet as his usual, allowing Orion to get another joor or so of recharge before they travel to Vos. There, within his own room, he went between documents to allow him to leave on such short notice and to decide which cloak to bring. He was not going to wear it to travel in, that was unprofessional and he was CMO of Iacon, a reputation had to be kept for both the facility and how he carried himself. 

Of course, while reading over a pad and filling it out did he truly begin to feel that this was a grand opportunity, not only for himself but for Iacon as a state. Vos and Iacon had never exactly been on good terms, not with trade and its agreements, politics, but Ratchet knew how he would be received would be crucial. He was not worried about Orion when he was uncomfortable he acted painfully professional, but he wanted to go anyway. 

Back to the documents, he had to decide who would be acting Chief Medic. Pharma, unreliable. Pīpō was young and talented, however, may become flustered at what could occur without Ratchet’s supervision. Flatline was, how some say, temperamental, not ideal for the time that Ratchet was planning to be gone for. Parapraxes, youthful and experienced, they would be the best option, considering that he could not assign a nurse to be his stand-in; it would not be proper. With the note taken, the square light emanating from above his storage unit shown the choices he had for the gala. 

Ratchet was not usually a formal attire kind of mech. In his occupation, it was not necessary. However, that did not mean he couldn't spare some Shanix on a decent cloak or shine. 

He draped his fingers over the few he had, texture not varying much: smooth, scaly. As it was with Cobalt, layered and cut into geometric shapes—his was cut as if a larger triangle had had another smaller triangle cut from its base. It was the same style that he wore when he graduated, a bit smaller for him now than at that the time. He pulled it out, examined it and allowed it to steal him away a moment, back to a chaotic time. 

A student, then attempting to make sure every little bit of anything was done, perfect. Echoes of four different mecha playing four different instruments filled Ratchet's mind, soulful and very popular style of choice. Far from what would have been his choice but he didn't complain. _Much._ Once he figured out Orion liked that sort of tune—happy and free-flowing—he sighed because _really Orion? This kind of junk?_

They both changed since then, now the music of the time did not bother him. The chores and the worrisome ways that had adorned his mind had shifted to almost relief at the sight of responsibility. It was calming to be free of the institution, all until the crushing reality of unemployment hit him like a metrotitan. Then the dread filled his veins as he scoured for something to pay his newly found debt with the institute, one that grew at a furious pace. He knew he was lucky to manage with the little income at first, hardly enough for half a Luna-cycle. 

His debt was leaving him, which gave way to more options and opportunity for different things - different mecha to fill that void. With that, it helped settle his spark knowing that Orion was with him. Even though they were only _friends_ , that’s all they really needed from each other. Needs and wants were not always exactly the same thing. 

Ratchet did not search further for which cloak to bring, Cobalt was always a good choice, a classic. With it, he picked up the few pads he needed, and walked over to the desk at the far corner of his room, taking up half the desk with the cloak lying flat. 

He read back over the absentee document and was caught on a single line of thought: date of return. He could return on the 15th and have all of his vacation orns be used up in a single go, or; he may return earlier on the 12th and still have a couple free orns available at his disposal. The latter would be more appropriate to the former. An emergency was one thing, leaving to go to a party was wholly another, and something that could potentially be frowned upon if Ratchet took a misstep. But, if anything, this would be considered a long overdue vacation, although most medical personnel did not have to opportunity to be invited to a prestigious gala in Vos.

Vos, it had princes. They would most likely be in attendance with their Lord High, Starscream; he wondered what could have called for a name such as that. On the orn that he was hatched, did he wail at the stars? Or, scream rather. He chuckled, knowing that type of conversation was left for those in the royal family and not with common mecha such as him. If he dared to make such a joke, he would be the cause for another conflict; so, it would be best for his glossa to be tied tight and kept quiet. _No sense in making a fuss over something so small,_ he thought; _however, it would be disrespectful in the least, even if it doesn’t land me in jail._

Ratchet looked at his clock and it read half past the fifth joor, they needed to leave by half past six, seven at the latest. He quickly marked down his date of return and took up the cloak again amongst the other pad he was looking through. He walked to the other side of the room and pushed the black door open with his ped, careful not to push too hard. He didn’t wish for it to bash into the wall… Or Orion if he was awake, he did not wish at all for it to go thump against the clerks head. Ratchet only had to do that once to never want to do it again, accident or not. 

Through the hallway, after taking proper precautions in not making noise, the kitchen was inhabited than first realized. Orion already had a cube in his hold, optics half-lidded and rested his arms on the surface. Ratchet stepped in further, careful to not startle the mech. “Good orn, Orion,” Ratchet whispered as he set down his cloak on the arm of the couch, keeping the pads in his hands. “You’re up early.”

He sipped at the warmed fuel. “Couldn’t recharge too well, so I figured may as well be ready.”

“And here I was, going to leave you to another joor.” 

Orion hummed. “It’s appreciated, unfortunately, it did not turn out that way.” Ratchet nodded, taking a seat on a stool by the counter, still eyeing the pads and their contents, gradually checking things off one by one. He released a chassis deep sigh, flicking through the pages. Orion sipped more from his cube and gestured by lifting it slightly higher and pointing with his pinky, “yours is in the warmer.” 

Ratchet turned his optics to the clerk, eyed how his features were slackened and how his biolights pulsed with a darkened hue. “Thank you. I’ll get to it in a minute. Gotta finish this.” There was not too much left but it was tedious to it in the morning before having to the trek to the international airway but before that go and turn in his absence notice. The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he would leave. 

Sooner would be then as it would seem. He placed it down with a sigh and slumped in the seat, only then to shove off and step lightly around Orion for his fuel for the orn. Without ceremony, he took half in a solid gulp, warm and comforting through his inner tubing. “I will be heading out,” he said out of the silence. 

Orion nodded again, facing away from the warmer and Ratchet. “Who have you said to be in charge?”

“Parapraxes, hopefully. As long as they have not been sent off to Luna One.”  
“Why would that be the case?” Orion then turned, watching as Ratchet stepped around him again, slipping the pads up under his arm. Ratchet huffed. “I may be CMO but that does not mean I’m always privy to the details of who’s still on planet. Unfortunately.”

“I—” yawn “—would think that you’d know the ins and outs like CPU circuitry.”

“The senators have more in the know than I do. It’s ridiculous,” he growled. “They are not even directly involved. Not even in the third ring of mechs that are involved. Grinds my gears.” He looked back at the pad in his hold, only thumbing over the corner. “Well, I have to get going. Be right back.” 

Orion hummed again, watching Ratchet step toward their apartment door. “Be safe.” Ratchet smiled and curtly nodded. His CPU was hardly occupied as he then drove back to the medical facility. _Be safe_. Orion was always oddly optimistic but he could afford to be. Ratchet had to be a realist. Being the chief medical officer left little room for optimism, calculating consumption rates, spark rates, surgeries. In those times he could not afford to think that everything was going to be alright, especially if there were to be a screw up somewhere. No, he had to take into consideration that a screw up _would_ happen and he would have to be prepared for it. 

Mentally, Ratchet was adrift whilst he drove. It was in the few klicks that he had when he drove to the facility that he was truly able to think, usually of something else than what was to happen during the orn. It allowed for some clarity. It was one of the calmest aspects of the orn that he had. 

Through his mental fog, he ran over a pothole, forcing his attention more to the unmaintained road. The less that he got pummeled by the road, the less dirt he’d have to clear from his undercarriage. 

That reminded him of something: Iacon and Vos maybe close enough to drive but to stay clean the whole way was of little chance. Not to mention that Orion and himself were grounders and did not have the available capability of flight systems. _Gotta make arranges for pick up too,_ he thought while turning down an alley, just two building over from the facility. It took him to the back entrance that was much less busy in the wee joors. The facility was open 38-joors an orn, of course, meaning that there could be hubbud in the lobby. It both saved time and energy. And his patience.

The light shown over a ivory colored sliding door, showing glyphs of which building it attached to. The one he need was the offices; so he had not gone far enough just yet, but he was close enough to walk. 15 klicks was not exactly something he wanted to walk for in an early orn. 

With a click and _swoosh_ Ratchet was up right, hissing at the tingle in his undercarriage. Hitting it twice with joor is not the smartest thing, but he had not noticed either. It stung in his lower back. He had to stay still a moment to let whatever happen pass. _Another thing to add to the list_ , he growled both internally and externally whilst he placed a firm servo against the spot. 

Slowly making motion at first, he made it to the back of the office building. A security officer there saw him walking toward the door. They gave the doctor a curt nod with a polite smile, forced but Ratchet returned it. “Good orn to you, Chief. Early this one. Barely out of night-cycle,” they commented, already manning the door open from within his protective cubical. “Indeed. Far early for you than I, I assume?”

“Aye, Chief. I’ve got the nightshift for most of this luna-cycle,” they explained. The buzzed alarm that accompanied the door lifting up told Ratchet to move. “I hope you have a decent pay period then.” He stepped forward, under the door. The security officer did not respond. No matter, Ratchet had more to concern himself with than with formalities of other mecha. 

Only half the lights were on although it seemed even less were on duty. Thankfully, there was no reason for him to speak to anyone more. There were places specific for what he had. _Quick drop off_. He walked with a slight limp on his right, the uncomfortable pulse from his oil pan had not quite left him. If it continued, the gala may only have been a thought.

 _Orion will be so disappointed_. 

Ratchet’s stride faltered for a flash, and obviously the mere thought of his flatmate’s disappointment flared louder in his HUD than his oil pan. He did not dare want to consider the possibility. No, this would pass, the irritation. As would the gala, something that only once an vorn, Ratchet made up his mind to want to go. Before it was only a feeble idea, now it was plan to go. 

Through now to the back, he found his name and thumbed open the drawer after it scanned him. It was still a matter of security. There had been one occasion where a mech had tried to open a drawer without meeting the proper criteria; and once where one tried to steal the information, something that could be sold on the black market. Fortunately, this district was one of the best, being low risk from foreign attack from within its premises. Once the scan was done, his deposited the report for Pharma’s missed surgery and his leave of absence form. 

From there, he left through the front entrance. Walking through the front of the buildings, he watched the horizon, seeing how the two moons had exchanged sides of the sky, still hidden partially. It was something he allowed himself to hum at in contemplation. He had not overheard anything about alignments or other celestial matters, but it was also something that did not suit his fancy. What did it matter where the stars are? The moons? Absolutely nothing. 

Ratchet fell gracefully to his alternate mode, spinning his tires far more than was necessary. The dull light of Alpha Centauri A shined only barely over the horizon from the south and Alpha Centauri B just slightly more west. Proxima Centauri would soon follow its cousin stars to cover the surface with its red light.

Still early and the streets were barren. Perhaps something was to happen? Ratchet did not know but the thought did not slow his pace. This time, when he reached the road, he watched for the pothole that had gotten him before. The change was not drastic but calculated, as it was with most things to avoid irritation or pain. Just a shift to the side and back around again. 

Only a few short kliks passed and Ratchet had reached his apartment, the outside light turned on this time at his approach. He came to a steady stop, without causing any more dirt to stir or scrape his tires against the ground to make the shriek. If out through the Medical District was a sign of things, not many mecha were up and even fewer would be pleased to be woken up in such a way. Ratchet did not quite stomp but the tingle from his oil pan did subside considerably he noted, reaching for the door.

Only the light above the warmer was on and Orion was no longer sleepily fueling. Perhaps he had gone to finish packing what he’d need, or a shower. The low hum of solvent rushing through the pipes just hidden by the wall made Ratchet’s thought all the more plausible. He wouldn’t bother him, they still had time to burn before they had to go; and frankly Ratchet wanted to finish his cube for the orn. There was no reason for him to get irritated (as much) so long as there was some fuel in his tanks. _Still warm_.

The solvent valve closed with a whine. Ratchet only turned his helm toward the hallway, cube against his lips. The door of the washracks popped open, steam wafting out and out came a shiny red mech. Hip kibble appeared indigo in the barely lit hallway, glimmering as Orion walked. Ratchet turned away, knowing that it wasn’t right to stare and he knew it. 

He finished his fuel and placed it with the other empty one on the back counter, then checking his chronometer: the sixth joor. Did driving through the medical district take that long? Perhaps it had. However, it did not matter so long as they both left on time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blep... I need to work more on this thing...
> 
> Sorry that the chapter wasn't so exciting but this is more like a progression chapter. I needed to get the ball rolling somehow.

**Author's Note:**

> Lemme know what you think! :3


End file.
